My Art, My Life
by Tsumii
Summary: I am a man of little voice. I have found I could always say things with color and shapes that I couldn't say any other way...things I had no words for. [Itachi x Sakura]


**Tsumii:** I should probably be updating Junkyard Wars since its been forever...but my laptop has been getting repaired for the past couple of months and I finally got it back and taadaa i can publish this little story that was in the back of my mind. I dont really know if I wrote this the way I originally wanted it to be written but bah I might as well get it up and running to hear your reviews. So enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Naruto

**Summary:** I am a man of little voice. I have found I could always say things with color and shapes that I couldn't say any other way...things I had no words for. (Itachi x Sakura)

**My Art, My Life**

I am a man of little voice. I have found I could always say things with color and shapes that I couldn't say any other way...things I had no words for. I'm an artist, an idealist, a silent soldier who paints his thoughts rather than shares his principles.

I come off as cold on many occasions and in truth it's rather just my thoughts of inconsideration. I simply don't care.

I am a 25 year old painter, who lives a quiet life filled with beauty and solitude. Loneliness is the feelings that those attribute to this sense of peace of idyllic nature, deriving from the common belief that if one has no other to understand them then they are merely alone.

I don't share these thoughts with the common man. I don't feel any sadness or desire to share all my knowledge with another about all my notions of what the world is and should be like. No, I find that seclusion, surrounded by my pictures of inner expression to be a true source of comfort.

I guess you could say my life is a manifestation of my dream; it is an art. And I can change my life anytime if I am not enjoying the dream. Dream masters create a masterpiece of life; they control the dream by making choices.

However I do enjoy the dream, just as I enjoy the art.

My art, my life.

I have always had a picture of what art is and what art isn't and it can best be explained through the words of Leo N. Tolstoy:

"_Art is not a pleasure, a solace, or an amusement; art is great matter. Art is an organ of human life, transmitting man's reasonable perception into feeling. In our age the common religious perception of men is the consciousness of the brotherhood of man-we know that the well-being of man lies in the union with his fellow men. True science should indicate the various methods of applying this consciousness to life. Art should transform this perception into feeling._

_The task of art is enormous. Through the influence of real art, aided by science, guided by religion, that peaceful co-operation of man is now obtained by external means-by law courts, police, charitable institutions, factory inspection, etc.-should be obtained by man's free and joyous activity. Art should cause violence to be set aside. And it is only art that can accomplish this."_

These statements perceived by one man were how I always lived my life. In a constant cycle of day and night, only my cycle was more of feeling, idea, and paint.

My sense of content, of understanding, of normality however did not last for as long as I would have liked. This routine shattered one day by the simple foolishness of my own desire to try and upturn the cycle.

I went to a museum.

An artist looks to others for inspiration, just as an artist looks at their own experiences for motivation.

I have been painting the same way for as long as I can remember; only looking at myself for the feeling of encouragement to continue this way of life. But suddenly it was as if a drought had manifested upon my creativity and I found no thought to bring life to my art. It was as if I were empty.

No matter what thought I brought to myself I could not bring a feeling or emotion forward to play along side it. Almost as if I had killed all sentiment inside me.

Art is idea. It is not enough to draw, paint, and sculpt. An artist should be able to think, and I simply could not.

If the artist sees nothing within him, then he should also refrain from painting what he sees before him.

So I found myself heading to the Art Gallery of Konoha.

I am quite aware that some of my own artwork hung upon the very walls of the building I had just entered, but due to my reclusive nature I knew no one would ever recognize the artist behind the painting.

I was once told that one of the wonderful things about a museum is how you're jolted into confronting art from strange and wonderful civilizations and you look and learn and expand your horizons.

It was because of this I had a strong sense of hope that my art, my life would rekindle within me.

Some say a room hung with pictures is a room hung with thoughts. Looking around at the different works I could find some truth behind this. I never understood my inability to produce a desire to visit this place. However taking a look at the living feelings and emotions expressed through these works of art I began to feel a small tingling inside me.

Perhaps my hopes were to come alive.

The aim of art is to represent not the outward appearance of things, but their inward significance. So when I came upon this one piece of art that spoke of such emotion, I could only stop to let the muddled feelings inside me too dissipate and just feel.

When the subject is strong, simplicity is the only way to treat it.

And gazing upon this straightforwardness yet sensation of passion mixed within I could not help but be captured by its beauty. I was like a man hearing the sirens calls that had entrapped countless of sailors with their alluring sounds.

The picture was of eyes. Just eyes.

The most hauntingly beautiful eyes I had ever seen.

It was a photograph, not even a painting, of real eyes, obviously a woman judging from the small amount of skin that the eyes were apart of.

The photographer had taken the colour out of every aspect of the photo with the exception of the irises. They remained the colour of sparkling emeralds.

I'm not an abstractionist. I'm not interested in the relationship of color or form or anything else. I'm interested only in expressing basic human emotions: tragedy, ecstasy, doom, and so on.

So when I see the emotions flashing through these brilliant eyes, I can't help but be captivated.

The woman's orbs spoke of such pain, such turmoil, such sadness that I could feel the ice walls of my heart thaw ever so slightly. The glimmer within those jade depths gave the impression that tears would soon leak from their caverns and something inside me shook with an eerie intensity.

To sum it up it: beautiful.

Looking at the title of the piece I found it somewhat odd but the message was something I could clearly relate too.

**Life obliges me to do something, so I shoot.**

I found a smile begin to creep its way on my features, this photographer was just like me…

Life obliges me to do something, so I paint.

A soft chuckle found its way to my face. This was a masterpiece in its simplicity.

I looked for the artists name but found only that it had been submitted anonymously.

It would appear the galley's art committee had been just as taken with the piece as I was for them to allow a nameless artist to display their work here.

I knew I couldn't stand here forever and since I found my creativity had already begun to come back to me with this one picture, I turned to move on.

Only to come upon a sight that made the photograph I had been so captivated with pale in comparison.

There she was. A sight I couldn't possibly take my eyes off of. She was just standing there looking at one of the gallery's many paintings. From my angle I had an entire view of the most angelic face I had ever seen.

And to top it all off, there were those same eyes engraved into her features just as they were in the photograph.

Those beautiful green eyes that were staring with the same force, the same torrent of emotions bundled within them. She looked to sad, so heartbreakingly sad that my own heart wrenched at the sight.

The woman was rather tiny, with beautiful yet unusual long flowing pink hair. Her complexion was relatively pale and without scar, scratch or blemish. Her lips turned into a neutral expression and eyebrows slightly creased. I found myself utterly enthralled with her beauty and suddenly it was like a wall had broken somewhere inside me and I could literally feel the creative feelings stirring within.

I felt urged to move towards her, but something held me back. Instead I found myself turning away from the sight, as if my eyes would scar her, and headed towards the exit.

It's been two months since that incident and I have returned to the very spot I currently stand at the same hour of every day, just to witness the woman all over again.

I don't get into "becauses." When you come into a gallery you see a number of works. My habit is to go to the one I like most. If you start to say "because" you get into art jargon.

So that is why I don't question myself when I return each day to go to the same spot a few meters from the enchanting photograph that once held my attention, to stare at the angelic beauty of one pink-haired woman.

When I returned home to two months ago, I began to paint, but all I could paint was that woman, and those eyes. But no matter how I painted and drew her image, nothing seemed to match the same passion I found when I looked upon her.

She was breathtaking; proof would be the familiar hitch of breath I seem to experience each and every time I look at her.

She has never noticed me. No her focus is always on that same piece of art every time I look at her. Sometimes I feel myself jealous of the artwork she stares at. But I realize that is so foolish. I have never spoken to her, I'm not even aware of her name. All I know is something wants those damn eyes to look at me.

I wait each day until she leaves before I myself depart. I've never followed her. I'm not some shadow that haunts her very footprint, though the idea has crossed my mind. All I want is to just somehow find out what lays behind those green mirrors.

I have discovered that in an artist's life, death is perhaps not the most difficult thing. Instead it is the inability to express the feelings that emerge at the sight of what captivates one most.

I used to find that the emotions were sometimes so strong that I would work without knowing it. The strokes just came like speech. Now everything has somehow turned into something of a black hole. With every creative thought being sucked into a black oblivion until all that is left is that woman's image.

I have always been someone who never paints dreams or nightmares. I paint my own reality. So why is it that I am unable to capture all she is? Is it because she's more beautiful than a dream and more soul rattling than a nightmare?

So I've returned again at the same hour of another day to gaze upon the bane of my existence. Only she is not there. Her space is vacant. Only hollowness surrounds the area, and suddenly I feel something akin to a crack run through my chest. Grasping the material of my shirt I experience a sudden shudder before a shooting pain erupts through me.

She's not there, she's gone.

That woman has been my day-long obsession, joy and torment and now she's suddenly absent. What's more is now I feel like a part of me is absent as well.

And suddenly I'm moving forward. I'm crossing the line I vowed I would never cross.

Because she's not there.

Suddenly I'm standing there. In _her_ spot. In from of _her_ painting. And suddenly I can understand everything.

For the work of art she was always staring at is a painting.

And that painting is titled: **"The Image of Self" by: Uchiha Itachi. **

And that painting is a picture of an otherworldly pair of eyes who I had always entitled _Sharingan._

My little brother was known to experience tantrums since a young age, and I remember one incident where it was as if his eyes suddenly flashed red, and I was gazing upon a pair of irises that both captivated and frightened me.

It was my first real bit of inspiration and I had immediately painted this picture after the incident.

The red orbs rimmed with an outline of black, contains three black teardrops that surround the inner pupil. Overall a striking and terrifying image.

But this was the artwork beside what the pink haired beauty had been staring at. Shifting my attention back to what was in front of me I found a mirror.

A simple elegant mirror that offered me a perfect view of a familiar space. I space I had always stood to admire the girl with haunting eyes. A space that was currently being occupied by said girl.

I turned swiftly to face the one woman who forever remained in my mind.

Art is made to disturb. Science reassures. There is only one valuable thing in art: the thing you cannot explain. And as my eyes have finally met with the jade depths that have troubled my thoughts I find that I am still unable to explain my fascination with the woman in front of me.

"Your eyes" I mutter under my breath but I'm sure she heard it.

I see her slightly surprised expression, and for once her eyes do not reflect any pain but only curiosity and puzzlement.

"My eyes" she mumbles back.

And once again I find the urge to run, just as I did two months ago. But this time something compels me to stay, to finally speak to my obsession.

And instead of moving back, I move forward.

And suddenly she's looking at me, and the familiar hitch in my breath happens.

And suddenly she's moving towards me.

And suddenly were in front of one another and questions begin to rise up through my throat against my will, as if the chains that held them have suddenly been released.

"Are you the photographer behind those eyes?" My question doesn't seem to surprise her as she only whispers one word to that makes the months of turmoil only a mere instant of uncertainty.

"Yes" and that's all I need, that word, and everything else suddenly doesn't matter.

But there's more, there's still so much more and I'm not the only one with questions.

"Those eyes" she mutters.

And suddenly the world made a little more sense.

Because after all my art, my life is her.

**Tsumii:** Done! So what did you think? I don't really think it came out the way I wanted it too, meh it's all good! So yeah, I didn't really end this I dont think so I'm waiting to hear your reviews if you would like an epilogue or something to this story! Please tell me your thoughts! Thanks guys

**R & R**


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